


Baby Steps

by alethiometry



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Men of Letters Bunker, Post-Episode: s09e23 Do You Believe In Miracles?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-30
Updated: 2014-10-30
Packaged: 2018-03-07 20:11:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3181601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alethiometry/pseuds/alethiometry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Tell them stories. They need the truth. You must tell them true stories, and everything will be well. Just tell them stories." — Philip Pullman, The Amber Spyglass</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baby Steps

Cas finds Sam in the bunker after Dean’s death. Sam is barely functional, going through the motions of living and spending all his time doing research trying to track down Crowley or Cain or any other demon that could know what happened to Dean, where his body went.

After the 29th consecutive hour they’ve stayed up reading, Cas gently tugs a demonology book out of a dozing Sam’s hands. Sam jolts awake, blinking blearily.

"Tell me about Dean," Cas says. Sam frowns.

"I — What? Cas, you know him, you’ve seen his soul and you pulled him out of Hell. You rebelled for him and you gave up armies for him. What else is there to tell you?"

"Tell me about your childhood. It is… different, to hear a story from the source, rather than see it from Heaven. I want to hear about it in your words. Tell me about Dean from… before. Before the apocalypse. When you were children. When it was just, as you call it, 'saving people, hunting things.'" — Sam huffs a small laugh at the air quotes. It’s a step. — "Tell me about the happier times."

So Sam tells him. Tells him about the time when he was six and Dean was ten, playing hide and seek until night fell over Singer Salvage and then they built a blanket fort and told ghost stories until Uncle Bobby made them come inside for cocoa and a real bed. Tells Cas about the target practice that Dean had promised their father they’d keep up with, trekking into sprawing fields far from town with their too-big guns, about how practice never really lasted for more than thirty minutes before they started bickering, about how their bickering never really lasted for more than ten minutes before they were play-fighting in the fields, under the late summer sun, guns lying forgotten on the dusty ground. Tells him about their initials carved at random places throughout the continental US, like on the ones in the Impala — on trees, on signposts and fences and road signs, even on a bathroom stall at a high school in Nebraska — the only indications that the Winchester brothers had ever drifted through. (He wonders if the initials are still there, or if they’ve been worn away by time.)

He tells Cas about Jess. How Dean had taken care of him after her death, had talked him back to sleep after the umpteenth nightmare that dragged him screaming into wakefulness. He tells Cas about Sarah, and Dean giving his seal of approval, his offer to stay in New York a little longer so that he and Sarah could date. He tells Cas about having to kill Madison, about stumbling out of her bedroom after the deed was done, tears streaming down his cheeks, to find his own grief mirrored in his brother’s face.

He tells Cas about their prank war in Texas, about Dean lacing his boxers with itching powder and about super-gluing Dean’s hand to his beer bottle as payback. He shows Cas the photo that Dean snapped after he’d stuck the spoon in Sam’s mouth.

Sam tells Cas all of this, and more, and Cas listens with sympathy, with a smile. When he’s done, Cas thanks him and tells him to get some rest. He’s got enough grace left that he doesn’t need to sleep, so he’ll keep researching while Sam catches some shut-eye. Sam, miraculously, doesn’t argue — just claps Cas on the shoulder, squeezing briefly before trudging to his room and sleeping better than he has in ages.

It’s a step.

Cas makes them breakfast the next morning (he still doesn’t enjoy the taste of food, but it’s worth eating just for the companionship that can be found in sharing meals). It’s nothing special, just some buttered toast and cereal, but Sam thanks him all the same and Cas sits down opposite him at the little table in the kitchen and starts telling his own stories. He wants to make Sam laugh — wants him to be as engaged and interested in his siblings’ stories as he was in the Winchesters’. Wants to honor the memory of his fallen siblings the way Sam honors Dean’s.

The problem is, telling stories is much more difficult that he thought.

"So Rachel and I were simply sitting there, and in walks Ramiel — oh, I forgot to mention Ramiel, he studied under Uriel and adopted his sense of humor quite early on — anyway, Ramiel walks in and says, ‘I have lain with a kraken of the deep.’" Cas chuckles at the memory, but Sam just cocks his head and smiles politely, clearly puzzled.

"It’s funny,” Cas explains, “Because in Enochian it’s a pun. It — never mind. Perhaps it was funnier at the moment. And… it’s funnier in Enochian,” he finishes lamely. Sam chuckles, and gets up to clear their dishes from the table. Cas follows him to the sink and begins lathering up the bowls.

"I wanted to share some of my stories with you," he says. "Because you did that for me. But it’s… difficult. Remembering the details. Sorting out what is important with what is trivial. Puns are particularly problematic — the Enochian you know is for spells and sigils, and not the casual form that we use in colloquial speaking. I — I’m sorry, Sam."

Sam actually laughs. Why now, and not when Cas was telling him Uriel’s more raunchy jokes, Cas doesn’t know. But it’s a relief all the same, to see a smile on Sam’s face. To know he put it there.

”Cas — it’s okay, man. I get it. It’s hard telling your own stories and making them interesting for other people. That’s why people get paid the big bucks to be comedians, or writers, or whatever.” Another smile, softer this time, and Cas can’t help smiling back as Sam continues, “But — thank you. Really. For—” Sam gestures at the dishes he’s rinsing and arranging on the drying rack. “For all of this. For caring. And trying. It… It means a lot, and I can’t thank you enough, but… I’m glad you’re here.”

Later, they’ll sit down in the library where they’ve sat for the past week and a half, measuring time elapsed by the stack of discarded books that surround them and the number of coffee refills that Cas will fetch and the bathroom breaks that Sam will take. Tomorrow, they’ll get up and do the same, and the day after that, and the day after that, until they find Dean and lay him to rest.

But for now, it’s enough that Sam is smiling again, Cas thinks. It’s a step.


End file.
